


The Rose Grew Round the Briar

by Garonne



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 02:50:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1039462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garonne/pseuds/Garonne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Holmes has an unexpected encounter with a figment of Watson's imagination, and Watson confesses to a clandestine correspondence, a weekend on the Sussex coast takes a sudden turn for the better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rose Grew Round the Briar

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alafaye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alafaye/gifts).



> Many thanks to thesmallhobbit for beta-reading. References to LION, though there's no need to be familiar with that to read this.

.. .. ..

Something had been troubling Watson for over a week now, and the change of scenery from London to Sussex seemed to have done little to help. To the casual observer, however, he would have appeared to be in excellent spirits. Indeed, he was positively beaming at me as we sat down to breakfast in the hotel dining room.

"What a charming little town this is, Holmes. It rather makes me wish I could paint or sketch, and somehow immortalise the view from my bedroom window."

"The seagulls were making a frightful racket this morning," I said. "I don't suppose you want to immortalise that too?"

He paid no heed to this. Years of exposure had made him impervious to my excessive prosaism.

"Tea?" he said.

"You could always relocate one of your stories here," I suggested, pushing my teacup across the table toward him. "The Salford gas-works murder, for instance, could perhaps benefit from a change of scenery."

"Perhaps."

I knew perfectly well he had no intention of immortalising that particular case. It had not been nearly outré enough, and held a distinct lack of potential for sensationalism, however good a showcase it might have been for my considerable talents.

Watson filled his own teacup, and reached for the sugar bowl.

"It's a glorious day for a wedding, too," he went on. "Hammond has been as fortunate in his choice of a date as in his choice of a bride."

"Indeed," I said, though I had yet to meet the bride. I had, however, heard her praises sung by Watson and -- on the one occasion I had met him this year -- by Hammond.

Out of the corner of my eye I watched the kitchen maid scurry past the dining room window. Her unfastened apron ties and the strands of hair escaping from her cap spoke of a hurried assignation with -- I recalled the layout of the grounds as I had noted them on our arrival the previous evening -- the stable boy, most likely. No doubt our bacon would be burnt.

It was rather a shame, really, that I could not give her some advice on prudence and circumspection born of long experience.

Looking at Watson's demeanour and appearance, no one could ever deduce the frustratingly short kiss we had shared when I stepped into his room before breakfast. It was quite impossible to read from his dress just how my hand had slipped in between the first and second buttons of his waistcoat, to caress through his shirts the soft expanse of his chest. The orderly disposition of his hair betrayed no hint of the way my fingers had raked through it half an hour before. Certainly one could never guess he had been lying naked in my bed as recently as the previous morning.

Now, he settled his teacup back into its saucer, and gave me one of those smiles I loved to see, and which had been so scarce of late.

"I do appreciate your accompanying me, Holmes. I realise you don't know Hammond all that well, but since he was kind enough to insist you come along -- "

"Think nothing of it," I said airily, conveniently ignoring the five days it had taken Watson to entice me to come, mostly by dint of waving before me the prospect of cliff-top walks, glorious sunshine and clean air.

Our bacon and eggs arrived at that moment, and we settled down to eat and read.

The choice of reading material in this tiny seaside hotel left much to be desired. Highlights included the Sussex Weekly Advertiser, a week-old London Illustrated News, and a few ragged copies of Punch. Watson, showing foresight if not taste, had purchased a railway novel at Eastbourne station the previous evening. I contented myself with the Seaford and Newhaven Gazette.

Watson glanced repeatedly at his watch throughout the meal, afraid to be late to church. It was, however, I who finished first. I rarely breakfasted copiously. I left him to his overdone bacon and went to engage the landlord in conversation. I wanted to sound him out about the best walks in the area. I still had the prospect of an interminable wedding ceremony and reception before me, but afterwards I was looking forward to a long summer's afternoon in the open air, alone with Watson.

There was a time when I could not stand to rot in the country, and Watson had practically to force me to leave London for any reason other than professional. Now I found myself more and more amenable to the idea. Perhaps over the years Watson had worn me down, or perhaps it was simply a consequence of advancing age.

Watson was standing by the open window when I took my leave of the landlord, and as I approached him the tang of sea air wafted toward me. The window commanded a fine view of the bay and the town, nestled in a break in the high chalk cliffs for which the region was renowned. The tide was out, and the dark line of the sea was far away from the boats pulled up onto the pebble beach. Out across the uncovered, glistening wet rocks, early-morning mussel pickers were bent to their task.

The picturesque nature of the scene appeared to be wasted on Watson, however. He was gazing out at the horizon, his brow creased, and he was evidently deep in thought.

He turned when he heard my approach, and his sombre expression was transformed by a smile. Not quite quickly enough, however, to hide from me the shadow that had preceded the smile. It was the same shadow that had hung over him for more than a week now, and whose cause I was becoming increasingly desperate to learn.

I had done something to displease him, but I knew not what. He wasn't sulking, of course; he never did. Indeed he appeared quite determined to hide his ill humour from me. Watson, unlike myself, took no pleasure in being aggrieved, and no satisfaction in showing it.

I saw it, however, in the troubled expression he wore when he thought I wasn't looking, the deep frown that creased his forehead as he stared unseeing at his newspaper of an evening, the momentary hesitation when I laid my hand on his arm.

"Ah, there you are, Holmes!" he exclaimed as I reached him. "I suppose we'd better hurry, hadn't we?"

We returned briefly upstairs before leaving for the church. I retrieved my hat, scarf and coat from my room, and crossed the corridor to rap on Watson's door. He was just putting the finishing touches to a Windsor knot. He looked magnificent.

"You've spruced up rather well today, my dear fellow," I said, shutting the door behind me. 

He murmured a distracted reply, now occupied with a fiddly pair of cufflinks. I took over the task and, once it was accomplished, followed that up with a press of his hands between mine.

That won me a smile, and a real smile moreover, without the slightest hint of darkness.

"You look rather good yourself, Holmes."

I tugged on his hands to pull him closer, and leant forward to murmur in his ear.

"Good enough that I might persuade you to be a little late for the ceremony?"

That raised a genuine laugh from him, as I had hoped.

"Really, Holmes!"

He pulled on his coat, still smiling and muttering something about my being quite incorrigible. I handed him his hat and cane, and ushered him out the door ahead of me.

We had just reached the front door of the hotel when Watson let out an exclamation, clapping his hand to his breast pocket.

"The card! Drat it, I've left it in my suitcase." 

He spoke, of course, of his gift for the happy couple -- or at least, one presumed they were in reasonably good spirits today.

"Your key," I said, holding out my hand, for I could take the stairs perhaps twice as quickly as Watson could.

The card was in a pocket in the inner lining of Watson's travelling case, along with the sheets of paper and other writing paraphernalia he had constantly about him. I was on the point of tucking the other papers back into their place when my attention was arrested by an envelope addressed to Dr J.H. Watson of Baker Street. The handwriting and stamp were unfamiliar to me: I had no recollection of having seen Watson opening this particular envelope over the breakfast table at home.

My curiosity was instantly aroused. The envelope had already been slit open, and I had no compunction in sliding the letter out and unfolding it.

It began thus:

_Dear Dr Watson,_

_I am immensely grateful to you for your offer of assistance. As I told you and Mr Holmes, I simply do not know where to turn. I will try to lay out the facts of the matter for you, just as you asked me, as accurately and as exhaustively as I can...  
_

I skipped directly to the end of the letter. It was signed _Mrs Emily Trevett_.

I knelt there on the floor for a long moment, clutching the letter in my hand, and seeking to understand.

I remembered that visitor, neither vividly nor vaguely, but simply in the way I recall everything which is of no immediate interest. The lady had wept copiously, but the object of her visit soon revealed itself to be a dull, trite affair: a husband with habits she described as mysterious, but which to me were laughably easy to explain. There had clearly been no foul play in the case, as the law defined it, and I had no interest in becoming entangled in a sordid affair of conjugal infidelity. I had sent the lady packing. Watson had tried to berate me at the time, but I am afraid I paid as little attention to Watson's remonstrances as to the lady's distress.

As soon as the door closed behind Mrs Trevett, the whole matter had disappeared from my mind. But not, evidently, from Watson's.

I had no time to worry about what that meant just now. I scanned quickly through the rest of the letter, which laid out the particulars of her affair. I returned the letter to its envelope and the envelope to the suitcase, before hurrying downstairs to rejoin Watson. 

The church lay around half a mile from our hotel, and the walk there took us down into the town and along the seafront. A short promenade ran above the pebble beach, and beyond, chalky, pale yellow cliffs towered up behind the town. Watson took my arm as we walked. The sea breeze had reddened his cheeks, and we both had to clap our hands to our heads as a particularly violent gust threatened to make off with our hats.

"Like I said, glorious morning," Watson cried, grinning broadly at me.

I wished for many things in that moment: that we were in some place where I could take him in my arms. That I were the kind of man who could easily and inoffensively broach the subject of that letter. That I were the kind of man who would have helped Mrs Trevett without a moment's thought in the first place.

We took a pew near the back of the church, by the door, but since it was a small country church we were nevertheless afforded a good view of the proceedings. The bride, as far as I could judge, was fittingly and elegantly attired. She was a native of Sussex, and the daughter of a country lawyer, although she had been living with relatives in London for several years now. Several details of her person told me as much. The process of deduction held little satisfaction for me, however, for Watson had already told me all about her.

I was more interested in watching Watson watching the groom, Walter Hammond, retired army surgeon and -- more significantly to me -- a man who had once been what one might call a very close friend of Watson's.

Hammond cut a fine figure in his charcoal morning coat, and I could appreciate, at least intellectually, what Watson had seen in him. Personally my taste ran to a bolder, sterner sort of man, such as Watson himself. I had met Hammond on several occasions in London, and I knew him to be mild-mannered and really rather dull, though admittedly kind-hearted and honest. I knew he had been a good friend to Watson, as much as anything else, in those years when they were both wounded and newly washed up in London. I don't believe their paths had ever crossed in Afghanistan, though they both served there at the same time. After a chance encounter at a Royal College of Surgeons evening, however, they had grown closer. Hammond had been one of those men of whom I was horribly jealous, in the early years of my acquaintance with Watson. Although the carnal side of their commerce did not go very far nor last very long, they remained good friends over the next few decades. Indeed, Watson was responsible for introducing Hammond's fiancée to him, her aunt being one of Watson's patients. By that time, I should add, I had long since staked my own claim on Watson.

As the ceremony began, I let my eyes roam over the crowd, singling out those persons who were acquainted with the bride, those who were acquainted with the groom, and those who were here for the food at the wedding breakfast.

Inevitably, though, and however reluctantly, my thoughts returned to the letter. The matter was in fact quite straightforward to understand. It seemed Mrs Trevett's tear-stained eyes had not left Watson unmoved, unlike myself, and he had felt unable to leave her in distress. Personally, I failed to see why the quantity of tears shed by a client should influence my acceptance or rejection of a case. I refused to be so swayed, and would not allow Watson to convince me otherwise.

And yet in my gut I felt I had disappointed him. I might not be the heartless calculating machine Watson liked to write about, but I knew I could never live up to his good heart, and the thought pained me because I knew it must pain him.

After the ceremony, we followed the wedding party to the reception. Hammond planned to settle and build up a practice on his new wife's native soil, and he had recently bought a large stone building on the edge of town, which had housed both the home and surgery of a retiring general practitioner. The place was already crowded with guests when we arrived, and we queued up with the other well-wishers to congratulate the newly wedded pair. As we drew nearer the couple, I had my first good look at the new Mrs Hammond, and my first opportunity to speak to her.

She had hardly uttered more than a few sentences when I was struck by the most peculiar sensation. I was quite sure I found myself face to face with Mrs Mary Watson, née Morstan -- or more precisely, her inspiration. 

Mrs Watson had never been a favourite of mine amongst Watson's literary creations. I believe I was less fond of her even than of that unlikely creature Irene Adler. I took objection to many of Watson's flights of fancy, in fact, but to Mrs Watson most of all. I was human, after all, and the idea of her very existence needled me, phantom as that existence might be. Watson had said once in passing that her invention had been his agent Doyle's idea, but I had never quite been able to clarify how much truth there was in that statement.

"How good of you to come, Mr Holmes," Mrs Hammond was saying, a gentle smile lighting her face. "Your time must be so very much solicited. Why, I feel quite distinguished now." She spoke sincerely and without the slightest hint of flattery or affectation.

"I do hope you will be able to profit from the occasion and visit the area a little," said Hammond. "I have quite come to love it over the past few years," he added with an adoring look at his wife. "Watson, my dear fellow, you both must come back and stay with us some time soon, once we have settled down. It would be a pleasure to have you here."

I allowed Watson to answer for me, for I was still deep in thought. I had just at that moment understood how great a role Hammond's character, as much as his bride's, had played in Watson's creation of Mary Morstan.

Sweet, kind-hearted Mary Morstan. I could not be that person. I could not become that person.

Watson gave my elbow the lightest of touches, recalling me to my senses. I added my congratulations to his, before we moved on to let another well-wisher greet the couple.

After the reception we moved into the drawing room to dance. The furniture had been pushed back and the carpet rolled up. Watson danced with several of the local ladies, and I felt obliged to do the same, at least for one or two turns around the floor. I soon extricated myself, however, and stood to one side, looking out across the joyful assembly. The lack of space and consequent enforced proximity was proving conducive to good cheer and merriment. I soon spotted Watson, spinning the bride's sister around with a broad smile on his face. Hammond was dancing with his bride. He was marrying for love; that was plain to see. One of those fortunate men who can find happiness with either sex, it seemed.

I slipped away from the crowd and stepped out onto the front lawn. The house was set somewhat above the town, commanding a view of the entire bay. From a distance, I could still hear music and voices, but here I was quite alone. I lit a cigarette and stared out at the sea. The sparkle of the afternoon sunshine on water did not quite match my sombre mood.

Towards three in the afternoon, the happy couple left for Dover, and their guests dispersed. Watson and I returned to the hotel to shed our morning suits for more practical garb.

Soon we were climbing high above the town, to emerge out onto the grassy cliff-tops. I bent to speak into Watson's ear, above the sound of the wind.

"I rather thought we might walk along the cliffs to the village after next, which is called Fulworth. The hotel landlord tells me there's a path which follows the cliff edge."

We walked for almost an hour before stopping to rest a little and to drink. We sat down on a grassy slope, and shared the bottle of water I carried.

Watson was preparing to broach an awkward subject with me: I could tell as much from the set of his shoulders. Indeed, after a few minutes' silence he cleared his throat.

"Holmes," he began. "I ought to tell you about a correspondence I've been -- "

"It's the governess," I said before he could go any further.

I had been sitting staring down at the flattened grass around my feet. Now I raised my head to look at him. His eyes were wide with surprise.

"I have been reading your correspondence, as you see," I went on. "Or at least, one letter you received. I suppose I owe you an apology."

Surprise and uncertainty warred with something strangely like affection in his eyes.

Finally, a rueful smile won out.

"It's rather a relief to find you know, in fact. All week I have felt -- " He shook his head. "Well, I didn't at all enjoy the feeling of hiding something from you."

"I believe I quite deserved it," I said quietly. "If I had not been so terribly peremptory on the subject of Mrs Trevett -- "

Watson, dear man, was an expert at stopping that sort of unproductive cycle of self-recrimination dead in its tracks. He interrupted me without a qualm.

"Tell me why you say it's all because of the governess?"

"I shouldn't put it quite like that," I said. "What I meant to imply is that Mr Trevett's liaison with their son's governess is at the heart of all of his supposedly mysterious behaviour."

He nodded slowly, regret creasing his brow.

"I had thought it might be something of the sort. And yet the poor lady was so very distressed, and I did so wish to try to help her in some way... " He came to a stop, the end of his sentence swallowed by a sigh. "You're quite sure it's the governess?"

"That Mr Trevett was unfaithful was clear to me from the initial interview with his wife. Some details in her letter allowed me to elaborate a little on my understanding of the situation. The child's innocent comment about the trip to the circus, the incident of the garnet pendant, the disappearance of the drawing room writing set... It was all really very obvious."

"In that case," he said with determination. "We must write to Mrs Trevett. Really, Holmes, you ought to have told me all of this already!"

I raised an eyebrow at him.

"Watson, she already knows or suspects the truth. I am quite sure of that. What good would proof do her? It isn't as though she would be able to divorce him on the grounds of adultery, for all that he could do as much to her, should she be unfaithful. The whole thing is an exercise in futility."

Watson could not dispute that, for all I knew that he longed to.

"Yet that's not why I didn't take the case, of course," I added, determined that Watson should know the full extent of my callousness. "I didn't take it because I knew it would bore me -- as it does."

I turned away from him to look out across the sea.

"Your good nature doesn't appear to have rubbed off on me, Watson, despite years of exposure. I'm afraid I don't suppose it ever will."

Watson said nothing. To my surprise, when I looked up I found him smiling at me.

"You're a better man than you give yourself credit for, my dear Holmes."

I was not expecting that. Contrary-minded as I was, however, it only made me wish to prove him wrong.

"In any case, the affair was one such as we have already seen a thousand times," I said coldly. "Really it is a distinct advantage of my chosen profession, that one is constantly reminded of the fickle nature of man's heart. No risk of losing one's head."

I sat looking out at the horizon, expecting words of protest from Watson.

Instead I felt his hand on mine.

After a long pause, he said, "You know, I'm really quite taken with this area. Let's retire here."

Watson had always been one of those very few people who could surprise me -- and in his case surprise and delight me. He had done so with regularity over the decades I'd known him, but the memory of that particular occasion on the cliffs above Fulworth remained etched with particular clarity in my mind, throughout all the years that followed.

"Not right away, of course," he added calmly. "But perhaps in three or four years, if you like. And there's no need to look at me in such amazement, Holmes. You may be sure I have not suffered through several decades of your supposed heartlessness to let you escape me at this late stage."

In the face of such a statement, I could not help but, finally, smile at him.

"I see you agree," he said. "Perhaps we had better go on exploring the area, in that case. Just to be sure of our choice, you know."

He stood, and held out his hand to me. I put my hand in his and let him pull me to my feet and, since we were quite alone, into his arms.

.. .. ..  
fin  
.. .. ..


End file.
